Rain taps the rooftop of Fane’s like it’s trying to come inside. The bar glows low—jazz plays soft and slow. Noah wipes down the counter, same rhythm every night. Same silence. Then the door creaks. A shadow walks in—drenched, breathless, too familiar. Noah doesn’t look up. “You’re dead,” he says. Milo smiles. “Not enough, apparently.” Milo replies back
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